


Snapshots

by Bolt41319



Series: FLO [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:48:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25751614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bolt41319/pseuds/Bolt41319
Summary: They say that Paris is the City of Love, but the last thing Regina Mills had expected was to fall for the handsome stranger snapping polaroids at the cafe.Set in the For Lovers Only universeFor OQPromptParty 2020Personal Prompt - Robin and Regina meeting92. Robin takes candid shots of Regina whenever he’s overwhelmed by her beauty
Relationships: Evil Queen | Regina Mills/Robin Hood
Series: FLO [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1868035
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16





	Snapshots

There’s this little corner bakery that she has practically fallen in love with. It has these delectable croissants that she can’t get enough of— it’s the only thing she can afford, really, that and coffee, but it’s perfect. 

She’s got her feet perched upon the seat across from her, notebook resting carefully in her lap as she writes hap-hazard sentences along the lines, letting the ideas flow from her onto the page. They’re nothing but ideas, thoughts of people she’s seen walking by, pieces of conversations she’s overhead. 

It’s quieter than usual today. She’s only a few coffees in and has filled at least three pages of her book, flipping between passive ramblings and notes for her upcoming article. She was just hired as an intern at a magazine, put to her own devices to learn about research strategies and marketing campaigns. It’s fun, not the type of interviewing and biographical work she truly puts her heart into, but it’s a step closer that she’s grateful for. 

She puts her pencil in the spine of her journal and closes it, setting it softly down onto the table, lifting her cup to take another sip of her coffee. 

She hears the shutter of a Polaroid, the tell-tale sound of a picture being developed, and she lifts her eyes from her coffee to see a gorgeous man sitting across from her, carefully pulling the picture from the camera and shaking it a few times in his hand. 

“You know,” she grins, eyeing him from over her cup, “the last time I checked it’s not quite legal to take pictures of someone without their permission.” 

He smiles over his camera and her stomach flutters just a bit when he gets up and starts walking over to her, the picture extended out in the palm of his hand. “Sorry darling,” he tells her, and the British accent surprises her, bringing a little flutter to her chest. “I couldn’t help it. You’ve been sitting there writing for the last hour or so, and so many things have happened around you, and you’ve yet to look up. Earlier this car skidded, full out, and you didn’t even flinch.” 

“You make me sound self-absorbed,” she blushes, raising an eyebrow to stare at him. He glances at the free chair across from her and lets out a  _ hmm,  _ and she nods, watching as he sits down. 

“Not self-absorbed, not at all,” he laughs. He takes the picture from where she’d set it down on the table, looking over it carefully. “Bloody gorgeous, actually. You’ve got this aura about you that just radiates composure and brilliance. It was fascinating to watch.” 

She lifts her cup and takes another sip of her coffee, her hand coming up to the table, drumming her fingertips against it rhythmically. “You’re a flirt, aren’t you?”

“I like to think that I’m more adventurous, than anything else.” 

“And the camera?” 

“It’s a hobby I’d like to turn into a profession. It’s what brought me here to Paris though, the thought of an adventure.” 

She crosses her legs, her shorts riding up to bare the skin of her thigh. She watches as his eyes flash down and he sucks in a breath, taking her in, then looking back up. “Well,” she smirks, reaching out to tear off a piece of her croissant, “have you found that adventure you’re looking for?” 

“You know,” he smiles, leaning back in the chair. “I think that I might have.” He holds his hand out and flashes her a grin, his calloused fingers wiggling. “Robin Locksley.” 

She looks down, staring at his hand cautiously before reaching out, her soft, small palm meeting his. “Regina Mills, at your service.” 

The waiter comes over and she orders two more coffees for them before turning her attention back to him. “So besides adventure, what brings you out here to Paris?” 

“The normal things, the search for freedom, for liberation from the straight-lined views of society trying to force me into more college courses that I could care less about… You know, typical things a poor blighter like me can get caught up and lost in. What about you?” 

The waiter comes back with their coffees and she passes some money over to him, lifting her coffee to her lips. It’s delectable and she takes a second, her eyes fluttering closed as she takes in the smell, the warmth flooding through her when she takes a sip. “Mm, you know, I’m positive one of my favorite parts about this country is the coffee. There’s something about it that’s just, so good,” she lets out, breathing it in once more. “I got a job out here after school ended, doing research for one of the local magazines. It’s not my favorite thing but it pays, barely, and it’s a step in the right direction.” 

“From the look of your notebook, you’re quite dedicated to it.” 

“Dedicated… obsessed, somewhere between there. I come here to listen to people, to take their different stories and twist them into whatever tales I can. It’s fun and seems to keep my creativity going, which I’m always grateful for.” 

He reaches out for his camera and brings it up to his eye, snapping another Polaroid of her. “You light up when you talk about writing, you know? It shows on your face how passionate about it you are. It’s fascinating.” 

She can feel the blush rising up her neck, spreading across her cheeks. “Why a camera?” 

“I like to capture people in their truest form, the one that they let out when they think no one’s watching. You’d be surprised what people can show when they’re being their true selves. It’s not something people see that often, but when you’ve been given the honor to see someone that way, well… It’s magical.” 

“For being an artist you do have a way with words.” 

He smirks, setting his camera back down. “I did dabble in writing for a bit, but there was something about the power of holding a camera in my hand that I loved a lot more.” 

She switches her legs, the curve of her hip going numb from the seat, and Robin’s eyes drop down again, his fingers drumming against the edge of his chair, watching her cross her smooth legs. It makes her smirk, the subtle power she knows she has over him after such little time together, and when she lets out a little cough his attention comes back up to her face and he knows that  _ she  _ knows where he’s staring. “I feel that way with a pen in my hand. It’s interesting, how different mediums can evoke the same response from people.” 

The conversation passes between them longer than she expects and before she knows it, the cafe is switching from their breakfast crowd to lunch, and the church bells ring out overhead when the clock strikes noon. 

“I have a meeting I’ve got to be at soon,” she starts, opening her journal to the back and scribbling her address across the page. “But meet me here around 8? And wear something you can move in.” 

She collects her notebook and her bag and flashes him a wink before she’s gone, walking up the street toward her office building. 

.::.

She’s absolutely  _ brilliant _ and he wants to learn about every part of her. 

The photos he took of her are still sitting on the table, set up neatly in front of where she just left, along with the paper upon which she’d written an address. 

She’s got this sense about her and he wants to know everything about the mysterious Regina Mills. He’ll do whatever it takes to get to know whatever he can about her.

Robin collects his camera and secures the strap over his shoulder. He collects the pictures of her and tucks them into his back pocket, dropping a few Euros onto the table to pay for the other coffee’s they’d gotten, before walking off in the opposite direction she’d went. 

He snaps a few photos along his walk, making his way back to the hostel where his things are set up. He doesn’t have much to his name, just a few bags and his camera, but there’s a sense of freedom from it that he loves, being able to pack up and leave whenever he wants. 

Robin crashes for a bit, gets himself situated in his bed before opening his box, his collection of pictures from the last few days falling out into his lap. There are so many different ones, many from odd angles, different buildings he’s walked past and people he’s seen. 

He takes the pictures of her from his pocket and adds them to his pile, his fingers tracing over the image of her. It’s black and white and she’s got the coffee cup up to her lips, not quite tilted back all the way, and she’s got her eyes on him. There’s this smirk on her face as well, something flirty and delicious and he gets lost in the thought of peeling down that tank top she had on her shoulders and pressing kisses to her neck. 

He snaps out of it a few minutes later, closes up the box and tucks it back into his bag, takes the note from her out of his pocket, the address that she slipped him, and twirls it carefully through his fingers. He scans the address again and reaches down back into his bag, pulling out a map of the city. 

She’s not too far from him, and it makes him wonder how often he’s seen her, how many times their paths have crossed in the bustle of the streets, without even knowing the possibilities before them. 

A few hours later he’s cleaned up, dressed to her specifications in a pair of black pants and a navy button down, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He hesitates to grab his Polaroid, staring at it on the bed for a moment before he changes his mind and slings the strap over his shoulder. It’s like a security blanket to him, and although he knows he shouldn’t drag it around everywhere with him, he’s got a feeling that if this night goes as he hopes it will, he may have more inspiration than he’s ready for. 

He steps out onto the street and walks up the sidewalk, following the carefully lined path that he went over again and again before leaving the hostel, turns right, then takes another left a few moments later, and when he comes around the corner he sees her figure in the distance and stops dead. 

She’s absolutely  _ gorgeous _ in this red dress that curves over her hip and flares out at mid-thigh, maps over each incredible plane of her body. When he gets closer she turns and flashes a smile at him, her dark hair collected in waves over her shoulder. He can’t help but gawk as he comes up in front of her, his eyes raking over her figure. “Bloody brilliant,” he sighs, smiling at her finally. “You’re stunning.” He reaches a hand out and tucks a fallen strand of hair behind her ear, then lifts the Polaroid, takes a step back and snaps a shot of her standing in the moonlight. 

“You don’t clean up so badly yourself,” she smirks, stepping closer, one hand coming up to drape against his shoulder. Her free hand reaches up to pull the film from the camera. “You hoping to take some pictures tonight?” 

He shrugs and nods, grinning down at her. Even with heels on she’s still just a bit smaller than him, but his eyes trail down and he stares at the line of her calves, her gorgeously toned legs. He wants to bring a hand up to her hip and draw her closer to him, to pull her plump bottom lip between his and suck until her toes curl, until she’s gasping and stretching up to meet him. “You never know when inspiration will strike,” he laughs. “So, tell me Ms. Mills, where are we off to this evening?” 

“There’s this club a few blocks over that I’ve been dying to try out. It’s a bit seedy from the outside, but I think it’ll be entirely too much fun, and that sounds  _ perfect _ to me, if it does for you?” 

She’s hesitating a little, he can hear it in her voice and it hits him that aside from this morning and their brief conversation, this whole thing is brand new and it’s making him equally as nervous. He nods to their plans, and right as she turns he reaches out and takes her hand, tugging her back toward him. He lifts the camera once more, holds it out to capture a picture of them both, and he stills when she leans in and brushes her lips over his cheek when the flash signs brightly at them. 

“This is all a little insane, isn’t it?” 

She grins up at him and starts laughing. Her head is back and she’s beaming and he feels it, all of those feelings he’d only ever read about in novels rushing through him as her laughter dies out and she’s smiling, telling him, “I feel like I’ve known you my entire life.” 

“It’s not just you,” he starts, and they’re both swept up in laughter once more. She squeezes his hand, turns it so her palm flush against his own for the second time that day and suddenly she’s pulling him behind her down the street in the direction she’d pointed earlier. 

He follows along behind her, his eyes trailing down the curve of her spine to the swell of her ass, how it sways back and forth as she walks. Her thighs and calves are bare and he watches those next as she continues up the street, her tight muscles gorgeously defined with each step. He lifts the camera with his free hand again, snaps a photo of their hands, the plane of her back, the brilliant curve of her hips. 

“How far is this place?” he asks, finally meeting up with her to match her pace. Her hand is still secure in his, her fingers shifting to lace between his, giving him a good squeeze. 

“Not too much further. Come on Locksley, where’s your sense of adventure?” 

* * *

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. 

Packing up this apartment was supposed to be  _ their _ doing, not her own. She wasn’t supposed to be here alone, surrounded by memories of them, empty brown boxes being slowly filled with pieces of them, their time together. He had promised that he wouldn’t leave, whispered to her on their darkest nights that this was it for him, that they were in it for the long haul. He was supposed to finish up his last assignment and then they would move back to the States, find a little house together in Maine and start the lives they’d dreamed of. 

Paris was only ever meant to be temporary. 

She had been modeling to pay off her debt from journalism school, picking up freelance pieces here and there until she had landed her writing internship, when she’d been swept up in the whirlwind that was  _ him.  _

Robin Locksley— tall, handsome, photographer extraordinaire. 

She’s never fallen in love that fast. 

It swept her up like a tornado, turned every inch of her life around until she knew nothing but him, the feeling of his hands on her skin, the press of his kiss to her lips, the sounds he made when he let himself have that release. She needed him like she needed air, and then suddenly, the rain came over and the sun disappeared. 

And he was gone. 

Most of his things had vanished. He had packed them up in the night after their fight, shoved what he could into his duffel bag and slammed the door shut behind him, but some were still scattered about their tiny apartment. A stray sock, a canister of 35mm film that he had not yet developed, a picture of his parents home back in Sherwood. Little snapshots of him were strewn about, surrounding her every thought. They made her stop, think, question how in the world one conversation could crash and burn around them. 

There’s a shirt tucked beneath her pillow and she swipes it up, holds the worn fabric to her nose and just breathes him in. 

On his side of the bed she kneels down, runs her fingers along the hardwood floorboards until her hand bumps a shoebox, her fingers carefully slipping through the little hole in the side to tug the box out from beneath the frame. 

She falls back onto her ass, leans her back against the side of the bed and traces her fingers over the long-faded shoe symbol in the center of the box. It’s nothing she’s seen before— it feels like an invasion of privacy, something that she wasn’t  _ meant  _ to see. He hadn’t shared it with her in their year together, and she’s not sure how long she sits, her fingers toying with the frayed edge of the cardboard, before she finally lifts the lid back. 

It’s all  _ her.  _

Pictures of her, everywhere, with dates and notes scrawled across the bottom in his tell-tale writing. 

Her hand is trembling as she draws the first one from the box. It’s recent— he took it last week, their last adventure before the fight. They’d decided to go to the beach for the weekend, lay out in Morgat, and he must’ve snapped this picture of her as she napped in the sun, her face tucked into the crook of her arm, hair tied up into a mess on the top of her head. She’s on her stomach, her top is undone and the thin straps of her bikini are lying on the towel, and she looks… peaceful. 

There are so many more photos in the box… hundreds, at least. Pictures that she remembers, but then some that she doesn’t. In some, she’s looking out at whatever scenery is before her, others from the farmers market up the road where she is donning her sunhat and glasses, carrying a basket of vegetables. There’s a particular one where she’s asleep, again, this time in their bed. She’s curled up in the blankets, her face barely peeking out from the top sheet, and her fingers trace over the blurred, black and white image, following down to the note he’s scribbled at the bottom. 

_ Don’t lose her.  _

The tears start pooling before she even has a chance to think. 

There’s so many snapshots in the box and she cannot stop herself from pulling them out, one by one. They’re so focused in on  _ her,  _ in every emotion, every movement, and it unnerves her, not just seeing herself, but through his lens. 

She’d asked him once, as they sat in the grass beneath the Eiffel Tower, why he wanted so badly to be a professional photographer, to travel the world and freelance from magazine to magazine in a profession that was anything but kind, and he responded by lifting his camera, taking yet another snapshot of her, before kneeling down before her and capturing her lips in a slow, sweet kiss. 

“The camera captures an overwhelming beauty that the eye just isn’t capable of.” 

It was cheesy, cliche, and though she teased him playfully for his response, she felt it too through her words. 

God, she misses him. 

The tears fall harder as she flips through the pictures in the box, memories hurling back at her with each image. They were supposed to move to America together, were planning to leave by the end of the month and head back to Maine. 

Storybrooke was vastly different from Paris— a place where they would be pulled back from their fantasy, the romantic bubble they’d put themselves in, but it was a dream she thought they shared. She had been hired for a minimum wage research position at the prestigious Gold Magazine, but it was something she could build from. Robin had been in touch with different studios, and was working different leads, until he’d come into their tiny apartment one week ago, took her hands, and begged her to stay. 

Her eyes fall to a picture of them both from the day they’d met, and she lets out a choked sob. He’d taken it after their night at the club, as they walked back to her room beneath the starry sky. He’s got his arm wrapped snugly around her waist, she has a hand wrapped around the back of his neck, and even now, she can still feel the sweet press of his lips to hers as he’d kissed her and snapped the photo. 

_ Fuck,  _ she misses him. Every part of him, from his brain to his heart. 

There is no doubt in her mind that Robin Locksley is the love of her life. 

She should’ve run after him, should have grabbed his hand before he slipped out the door and promised him that whatever was wrong, regardless of what happened that changed his mind, they could work through it. They were both far from perfect, but she knew that she had messed this up. She should’ve listened to him, should have reasoned, instead of letting her mouth spew words of anger and hurt before her brain could catch up. 

There is a chance she’ll never see him again, never get to hold his hand, card her fingers through his hair or feel his body over her own. All the regret, all the heartache and pain that she’s prayed would subside over the past week comes bubbling over, pouring out of her in wracking sobs. The shoebox falls to her side, the pictures of the past year scatter all over the hardwood floor and she clutches the polaroid of their kiss to her chest, wraps her arms around her knees and finally allows herself to feel. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for taking the time to read! I hope you enjoy!


End file.
